Yellow House

I

The ink that was used 

To write your postmortem 

was barely drying when I 

realized the storm had died down.

And no gardens dared to bloom 

on your hospital bed as 

you searched

across the glass wall

a familiar face, 

your babes, 

nowhere to be seen in the 

sea of beeps and 

daffodils–

but you brave through it all,

wide-eyed, facing death 

in a manner in which it 

was humbled; 

The dying was not graceful,

You knew it never was,

but death could never raise

its chin and look you in 

the eye 

without marvelling at 

the temple it 

had conquered.

II 

And all that’s left of you 

is this house. 

A rotting cheese in between 

Cracks,

squeezed among the 

talking walls. 

III

He never stepped foot

inside your shared room.

Only once, when he 

imagined you’re in 

the  bathroom 

shunning your monsters

asked for your clothes-

He opened the drawers that 

was full of you, your 

veins, overlapping at the 

seams. 

A tight grip squeezed 

what’s left of regrets;

reciting your 

dreams over and over

won’t ever bring 

you back.

IV

It was at 4pm when I heard 

the news; 

the sunlight lends its rays 

to the two souls 

breaking. 

The crowded room seemed 

To sleep in the whispers 

of the cooled room,

the whirr

Enveloping the needle 

that fell in the vast 

nothingness of time. 

She’s gone. 

V

I never tasted tears

with heavy bitterness

when it comes to her;

Only feathered 

comfort,

on cold cement.

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